


Unfashioned Creatures

by WahlBuilder



Category: Mars: War Logs
Genre: Bullying, Coming of Age, Electrocution, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Murder, Pre-Canon, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 06:07:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14395920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: Once, Roy lived in the Auroran Source and had a different name.This is the story of Temperance, a young Auroran Technomancer.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains a person exploring their gender identity, and while no transphobia is present, dysphoria is here.  
> The story also doesn't align on some minor points with my other stories about Roy and with details of the game itself. It doesn't mean that I'm forgetful, it is simply that my understanding of the character is different in this story and those points were changed for the narrative.  
> I send my love to the Spiders Discord group. You guys are awesome!  
> Lastly, just like with other works set in the Technomancer universe, this one is a work of love that wouldn't have even come into existence if not for the Spiders team's love for their own stories. I am eternally grateful.

The hiding spot was good, snuggly: an entrance to a vent. Bolts on the grille covering the entrance proper were loose enough to not need a screwdriver to pry them out, and the fan was turning lazily far enough in the vent to leave space to hide, enough to pull the grille back into the vent like nothing was amiss.

Here, with the steady but energising beating rhythm of the blades, Temperance could think. Could rest.

A search party had been sent after Temperance already. Technomancers would learn of this hiding place, and Temperance would have to find new ways to have silence. To get away. From all this.

Temperance heard the steps, shook off the last remnants of a daze, trying to breathe evenly and as silently as possible: breathing exercises they were taught were useful at least for _something_. Trying to make as little noise as possible, Temperance shuffled closer to the grille and peered down. The vent shaft was looking over a dimly-lit maintenance corridor, and anyone moving down it would have to carry a light or look closely to notice that the grille lacked its bolts: they were securely in the pocket of Temperance’s vest.

Hurried steps rang in an adjacent corridor, voices calling for Temperance. Temperance could wedge something between the blades of the fan to stop it, but didn’t have tools to remove it, at least no way to remove it without producing a lot of noise. So Temperance was stuck in the vent, not being able to move further down the shaft, hoping the searching party would go elsewhere. Or better, give up.

Steps started moving away, and Temperance breathed out in relief, scooting back towards the fan—and kicked the grille. Temperance grasped for it, but it was too late: it slipped beyond Temperance’s reach and fell on the floor with the clang that was the loudest sound in Temperance’s life.

Silence followed, the world suspended in it, and then, a cry. ‘Here!’

Steps resumed, ringing closer, closer, but Temperance was already tumbling down out of the shaft and into the corridor, landing on the right shoulder with a moan, scrambling to get up. Steps were booming so close now, impossibly loud, the world slowing around Temperance. The carefully memorised layout of the Source, the layout of the ventilation system, planned escape routes—all of it had vanished in an instant, leaving only one instinct.

Run.

And Temperance did, booths scraping the floor—and was yanked back, the collar of the vest choking air out of the restricted throat.

Temperance was thrown into the floor and rolled into a wall, but managed to push away from it without hitting it, already trying to find purchase, reaching for the heavy bolts in the pocket—and cried out under the weight of a boot that pressed between Temperance’s shoulder blades, so heavy it was difficult to breathe.

‘You won’t run, you little shit,’ a voice rumbled, and Temperance froze.

That voice.

Temperance gripped the bolts and arched, trying to throw off the boot, to flail and punch—but Temperance’s fist was caught and arm twisted so sharply that Temperance cried out again, pain flaring in the shoulder, and bolts rained onto the floor, one of them missing Temperance’s eye just barely.

And that voice, heavy and rough, rouse, triumphant, calling to the rest of the searching party.

‘I found her!’


	2. Chapter 2

The right shoulder was aching like hell, reminding Temperance of the echo of the initial pain, but it was not the first injury, and would not be the last. During the search they had found one of the stashes in another vent, near the training grounds, and that was worse that the pain of the set shoulder: Temperance had hidden a broken wrench there, some Serum, and biscuits.

Temperance made a mental note to find out who had been in the searching party, and make sure they wouldn’t be in it the next time.

The meeting with Honesty had been nothing new, and Temperance used the usual tactic: silence. The punishment was nothing new either. It was even good, really: extra laundry duty and solitary dwelling and no permission to roam the corridors in between classes and meals and extra duties.

Temperance couldn’t show, however, how the punishment aligned perfectly with the plans that had been in motion already, and permitted the ache from the shoulder show on her face as a mask of upset.

It had been long in the works, that plan, but Temperance could be patient when needed. Extra laundry duty meant being able to pilfer clothes. Of course Technomantic robes were out of question, both combat and formal ones. But clothes of the support personnel, an odd shirt or nondescript jacket? Yeah, people wouldn’t miss them if instance of taking them were spaced out carefully. Clothes sometimes disappeared in the laundry, everyone had lost one or two things at some point. Nothing suspicious.

Temperance felt a bit bad about taking a binding shirt, but it wasn’t irreplaceable for its owner and Temperance couldn’t just ask for one. Didn’t want to ask for anything that could tip off mentors about the plan.

The day dragged on to a conclusion, with Temperance occupying herself with scanning electromagnetic fields around herself while waiting for the drying cycle to conclude, then she took the laundry out for folding. Temperance pretended to be cowed by the work when an adept came to collect her. Temperance was escorted to the single room, and the door was locked.

Temperance shuffled around, throwing the blanket off the cot, aligned books on the shelf over the desk, picked a tablet and read for a while, but couldn’t focus on words, reading the same passage over and over (‘ _…ar, far in the forest, or sauntering later in summer, before I…_ ’) until it was drowned out by her heartbeat.

Temperance put the tablet down carefully, tousled the cot and threw a blanket in a disarray onto it. Temperances waited more by counting heartbeats, but they were too rapid, her heart in her throat. So Temperance gave up, turned off the light and, leaving boots by the cot, tiptoed to the door and pressed her ear to it. Only the hum of ventilation was in the metal—that, and the lock. These solitary cells were only used for acolytes, or more accurately, for misbehaving acolytes; trined adepts lived with their mentors in shared quarters and most of acolytes shared dormitories, but Temperance actually liked the solitaries. The lock was Technomantic, and since it required a pretty neat charge control, it was a good way to lock up an acolyte who had only started their training.

Now, Temperance was about to test her powers: it wasn’t difficult to control the flow on bigger targets, but small output for a lock required precision. Temperance knelt by the door, the lock—a faintly outlined rectangular panel—in front of her eyes. Temperance licked her lips, pressed her fingers to it and closed her eyes. The surge was as ready as ever, invigorating, buzzing within—a tingling, heady feeling, but dangerous, too. Temperance reached into it, allowed it to spread over her body, her frame a conduit to power, and then guided it into her left arm, into her palm, her fingers—and into the lock, letting her senses extend with electricity, scanning, searching, reaching through the inner workings of the lock. Yes…

A soft click, and Temperance looked at the lock, fingers tingling, sparks falling into the metal of the door.

Temperance was free.

Scrambling to get up, Temperance slid the door to the side silently and peered around. The corridor was empty both visually and audibly, luminostripes the only light sources at the eye level, white-blue. In the nearby corridor intersection, a ventilation kicked into life for the night cycle.

All was quiet. Temperance feared her heartbeat would alarm the whole building, so hard it was beating.

Temperance started sneaking to the goal—a vent shaft fitting for one of the big fans that wasn’t operational, near the currently empty hangar. Temperance was certain a few mentors or adepts would be patrolling the corridors where they had found her a few days ago, and Temperance was picking the corridors as far away from that as possible. Letting them find her so far from the true mar had been one of the goals of that day that had turned so bad.

Fucking Integrity and his penchant for violence.

Temperance rolled her right shoulder, shivering from the metal of the floor, with only socks padding her feet and preventing heat footprints from forming, she was sure she would feel mentors and adepts before they would be able to spot her. They were so obvious. Temperance couldn’t put it into words, but the feeling of them was physical, like a feeling of someone looking at her—and Temperance was well-accustomed to that particular feeling.

It was a crackling, sizzling presence. And then, the scent, more so on adepts, who were brimming with power, than on mentors, who were better at keeping their power in check.

The taste of metal on Temperance’s tongue, stinging and spicy, unique for each emotion, each person.

Temperance met nobody, however but that only made it more suspicious, her alertness spiking.

At long last she turned the last corner to the tunnel that ended with the big fan shaft—and faced a wire fence with a Technomantic lock.

Temperance bit her tongue on a curse, hurried to the fence, knelt by the lock and examined it. Nothing was lost yet. It was more elaborate than those on solitaries, closer in features to those on the offices of mentors. A few days ago when Temperance had hidden the last items here, there hadn’t been a lock. Temperance clamped down on the thought that the stash might have been found, too, but then, an investigation would have occurred, right? Someone had just decided to install a better lock. That was all.

Temperance hoped so.

Temperance pressed her left hand to the lock gently and stroked it, then reached into it with the surge of power.

Aha!

It clicked, just like the lock on Temperance’s room. More elaborate, but not as hard as Temperance had imagined initially. Temperance got to her feet, then opened the door in the fence, and closed it carefully behind herself until the lock turned on again.

The maw of the vent shaft gaped in front of Temperance. With a heavily beating heart, Temperance approached it. The dust lay undisturbed on the fan blades that were as long as Temperance was tall. For a moment Temperance imagined the fan starting up suddenly when she would be there, mincing her to bits… Temperance shook herself and squeezed between the blades, then scooped up a handful of dust on the tunnel behind it and dusted the blades to cover her passage.

Then Temperance turned her back to the light filtering from the corridor and started further into the shaft, into the darkness. Temperance counted thirty steps, the air rapidly turning stale and hot, and then dropped into a crouch and felt around.

The bundle was there.

Temperance breathed out, then started divesting. She shucked off the shirt and undershirt and put them away, then took the binding shirt out of the pile. It was tight, and Temperance got stuck in it and panicked, thinking she’d have to forgo it, but then managed to pull it on. It was hot and restricted Temperance’s movements somewhat, but the sensation filled Temperance with excitement. Temperance only hoped it would work as disguise. Next, Temperance put on a shirt—not the well-manufactured standard issue acolyte shirt, but a low-worker thing stolen from the laundry. It was big, taken in case that the binding shirt might be the wrong size or simply feel bad, but now all of it felt like freedom, coarse and whispering against the binding shirt with each movement.

Temperance bandaged her fists and wrists like adepts did it at the training grounds where Temperance had sneaked to watch. Temperance hoped there would be no confrontations, but one couldn’t be _too_ careful, not where Temperance was planning to go to. Temperance cuffed the sleeves at last, then put on a jacket, a heavy oversized thing, padded and hopefully adding to the whole disguise as well. Temperance suddenly wished her shoulders were wider, but put the thought away. She left the uniform pants on: they were nondescript, scratched and worn from Temperance’s explorations of the Source.

Temperance ran a hand through her hair; acolytes were not permitted—and didn’t really require—the undercut, but it was a pragmatic matter for those already practising Technomancy, because longer hair tended to catch fire.

And Temperance was practising.

The last were boots: a worker’s boots, sturdy and worn but good on Temperance’s feet. Putting them on, Temperance held back from stomping to test them: vents carried sounds very far and could alarm any patrolling adept or mentor.

Checking everything one last time, Temperance took a deep breath and started further into the vents.

Towards freedom.


	3. Chapter 3

Technomancers, Temperance decided, were so obsessed with not letting anyone unwanted _in_ the Source that to get _out_ was no problem. Of course it helped that the old vent shafts stretched so far, to the old mole tunnels, luckily abandoned, and into the slums, as Temperance had discovered during her explorations.

Stepping onto the send-streaked alley that hardly deserved that name (for it was a tight space enclosed in metal sheets that provided some insulation against sand, a corridor, really), Temperance rolled her shoulders, her heart hammering again. Then walked down the ‘alley’ to the door pushed it open.

What hit Temperance right away was the smell of sand, dry and rusty. And also, _noise_. The old corridor opened into a vast area, the shadow of the dome sheets far above, and Temperance’s head swam. She stood on a ledge some meters above the ground, the slums like a labyrinth before her, light and shouts and smells.

Temperance had forgotten everything about the initial plans. The darkness of the night showed through the cracks in the dome sheets, and Temperance couldn’t get enough of those slivers of dark with dots of white. Temperance hopped onto the ground and just walked, moving with her back forward, trying to find a place from which the lights of the slums wouldn’t obscure the slivers of sky—and bumped into something and then staggered as she was pushed away.

Stupid!

Temperance pushed her hands into her pockets, hunched shoulders, even though anger and pride flared inside her and demanded to turn and shove whoever shoved her. “Sorry,” Temperance grumbled and stepped away, hastening down the alley hugged from both sides by walls of containers or housing, it was impossible to tell.

‘Hey, boy!’

Temperance stopped, turning round. Heart in the throat. ‘Me?’ Temperance swallowed thickly, her mouth dry—but not because Temperance was facing four very towering, very imposing men in dark jackets. All four had a patch on the left breast, a coil of razor wire in a black circle. Each of the men was equipped with something looking like a razor wire whip, too, at their hips. Temperance wondered whether it was just a decoration.

‘Yeah, you, boy!’ one of them called, then grinned. A tooth in his lower jaw was missing. ‘Haven’t seen you around. Care to introduce yourself, kind sir?’

Temperance shook off the stun, then lowered her voice. ‘I’m… not from here.’ Temperance realised that in all her roaming she hadn’t traced her path, staring up all the time, and needed to watch the dome to make the way back again. Temperance glanced up. The stars were barely visible, eclipsed by the lights.

‘What’re you looking at, boy?’

Temperance felt them advancing. Everything produced electricity, and their fields were uneven. They were going to strike.

‘My way back,’ Temperance mumbled, mentally tracing the path on the dome, then looked down, superimposing the traced way onto the ground.

And ran.


	4. Chapter 4

Temperance still had a couple of hours left before the morning bell.

Temperance didn’t turn on the lights in the showers. Emergency lighting—two blue bulbs—cast the surroundings into unreal pall, but they were enough.

The jacket and the shirt lay discarded on the floor, the jacket’s right sleeve torn off nearly completely, thick threads like rent tendons: Temperance hadn’t had time to notice a nail sticking out of the wall. Temperance would have to find a sewing kit and mend it somehow.

Floor tiles chilled Temperance’s feet, boots and socks toed off. In the wall mirror, Temperance caught the sight of the discarded outfit as a whole. Sans the trousers that were still on Temperance, puffing off dust and sand with every shift of muscle, it looked as though the person wearing the outfit had suddenly disappeared, the garments falling in the image of the figure wearing them.

Temperance shuddered and moved attention away from it.

The right shoulder was bloody terrible, a bruise forming on it and spreading in a blot of funny colour that Temperance couldn’t exactly name, not under the blue lighting. Just Temperance’s luck, to land on the same shoulder that had been dislocated not long ago. That bruises didn’t concern Temperance much: it wasn’t the leading arm, and it could be easily explained away by an ‘unfortunate fall’, which would be true, of course. Still. No using the right arm for a while.

The cut on the cheekbone would be harder to explain, and it was stinging like hell. Shouldn’t have looked back during the run… There was a possibility of going to the medibay and nicking a health shot to make it heal in a few moments, but Temperance wouldn’t be able to get there until the next night.

Temperance caught her wandering thoughts, circling around and around the most important thing, like thirsty moles around a cistern, the thing that coiled and sizzled like building charge.

_‘Hey, boy!’_

_‘Care to introduce yourself, kind sir?’_

Temperance bent over the sink—and hissed as the binding shirt tightened. Bruised ribs, too, it seems. Putting the pain away, Temperance splashed cold water into her face and looked up. Took a few steps away from the sink, looking over the reflection.

_‘Hey, boy!’_

Temperance gripped the hem of the binding shirt, grunting from pain—and stopped. Couldn’t do it, couldn’t take it off, even though it was scratchy, hot, dirty.

Temperance met the eyes of her reflection, one blue, one brown, pupils blown wide.

Then the reflection closed its eyes. And slid into oblivion.


	5. Chapter 5

_‘…class attendance…’_

_‘I know, brother. We are working on it.’_

_‘I’m aware of your petition, but as you can see, she is—’_

_‘He.’_

_‘Are you certain?’_

_‘Not completely, but_ I am working on it, too. Thank you, Ferocity. I’ll stay here if it’s all right with you.’

‘Stay for as long as you need. In fact, I’d be grateful if you looked after Temperance. By the Shadow, we’ve had enough trouble as it were, we don’t need injury aggravation.’

‘No, brother. We don’t.’

Temperance kept still. The cot of the medibay was nothing unfamiliar, as was the mild chill of the medibay and buzzing of equipment. Like a cloak of constant electromagnetic fields. Soothing.

Something creaked and rustled behind Temperance. ‘How did it make you feel when you were referred to as “he”? I know you are not asleep, Temperance.’

Temperance didn’t startle, but her whole body tightened at the sound of Honesty’s voice, she couldn’t help herself…

_‘She’?.._

Temperance kept silent, but the mentor didn’t seem to be in a hurry. Honesty’s field was like the medibay equipment. Enveloping gently.

Under the sheet Temperance was in soft medibay pyjamas, and it felt wrong. The gravity pulling at Temperance’s breasts. The curve of her hips.

Everything felt wrong.

Not the talk, though.

‘It sounded right,’ Temperance said quietly. The wall had a grille of a vent shaft above the cot, but too small even for Temperance to squeeze through.

‘Do you need help with—’

‘I don’t,’ Temperance snapped, bunching the sheet in a fist, then turned around, glowering at Honesty.

The mentor’s gaze was soft, and that only made Temperance sicker. Temperance sat up, ignoring that gaze, felt under the shirt for the right shoulder, but probing it didn’t hurt. Temperance touched the cut on her face, but found only a slight raising of skin.

Health shot.

Brought to the medibay like a weakling, and given a shot. Like a child who couldn’t measure their strength, like a recently overloaded acolyte…

Temperance wrung the sheet. ‘Are you going to lock me up again?’

‘No. Clearly, it only makes things worse.’ The mentor’s robes rustled as she moved. Temperance was studying her heavy boots, Technomantic boots, dark-grey and insulated. ‘You know that you can always ask for help?’

Sure, thought Temperance. And never get out. Never have even a chance to get out.

Help meant being indebted.

‘I don’t need help.’ Temperance slid onto the floor, looked around, avoiding Honesty’s gaze, then found a pile of clothes and moved to it.

Honesty reached out, but before she could touch, Temperance whirled to her, vision going red. ‘Stop it!’ The words rang in the ward, but Temperance was beyond caring. ‘Stop it with your help and care and everything! I’m sick of it!’ To hurl something at the mentor would be good, but there was nothing at hand, so Temperance turned about again, intent on putting on the normal clothes and leaving.

Her hand touched the buttons on the shirt—and hesitated.

_‘Hey, boy!’_

‘It felt right,’ Temperance heard someone say, and recognised that voice as her own. His own?

Temperance tasted it. _‘He’._

‘It’s nothing to be worried about,’ Honesty said. ‘You can ask for counsel or the hormonal implant.’

Temperance huffed then tore open the shirt and started rummaging in the pile of things. The binding shirt was not there. Ha! Big loss! ‘What do you know about it?’

‘As it happens, Ferocity, who, as you well know, is in my tri—’

Temperance snorted. ‘What do _you_ know about it?’ Shrugged the shirt on and buttoned it. Trying not to think about her body.

_‘Hey, boy!’_

‘Temperance, look at me, please.’

Temperance didn’t. Didn’t want to see pity or sternness or anything else.

‘Temperance.’

Actually, hearing some anger in Honesty’s voice would be nice. A nice excuse to let out excessive energy—except that, Temperance couldn’t and had to clamp down on the prickling in the hands.

‘You could try it out first, you know how it’s done. Nobody would force you to install the implant or do any surgeries. Or do _anything_ on the matter.’

Temperance did turn around then. ‘Why are you trying so hard?’

Honesty looked impenetrable—though if Temperance was frank, reading people was a whole load of work Temperance couldn’t even begin to get to. Assume bad intentions, that was the safest approach.

Honesty barely moved, her brown gaze boring into Temperance. ‘The Council will be promoting you to an adept.’

Temperance stared at the mentor. The worst in trying to read people was when they told jokes with straight faces and the punchline couldn’t be gleaned from the meaning of words alone. Such jokes made Temperance’s skin tingle with charge. ‘You used to make funnier jokes, mentor,’ Temperance said at last.

‘This is not a joke.’ Finally, Honesty moved, leaning forward, and Temperance made a step back without even thinking, and something changed in Honesty’s face, but Temperance couldn’t say what.

‘I’m not of age.’

‘Despite that adepts are usually in the same age range, it is not the only criterion when the Council considers advancing an acolyte, not even the primary criterion.’

‘I fail classes.’

‘Not because you can’t manage them.’

Temperance bristled. ‘Are you calling me lazy?’

‘I did not call you that, did I?’

Dodging and running away from four very ragged men had been a more preferable activity that talking with the mentor. Temperance had the last, undebatable argument. ‘Nobody would take me in.’

‘We shall see. Are you aware of the procedure? Talk me through it, please.’

Temperance shifted from foot to foot. This sounded like another lesson in physics. Honesty used the same thing during lessons. In a way, it was effective.

“You write a list of mentors you’d like to study under, and those mentors shall have no trine or have an incomplete trine, and they write a list of wound-be adepts, and then everyone finds out if anything on the lists matches.” Mentors and senior adepts who were ready to become mentors usually had connections and favourites among acolytes, though sometimes adepts were trineless for a while if they needed training in their Technomancy but couldn’t find a trine right away.

Integrity was trineless for now.

 _Your trine is your first line of defence, your backup, your immediate family, your spouses, your wards. Through them, we grow stronger like a chain._ But what if one of the links were rusty or didn’t align with others, were a wrong shape?..

‘Correct,’ Honesty said, pulling Temperance out of thoughts.

Temperance shifted again. ‘It is final, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, Temperance. The Council believes—I believe—it will benefit you.’

In what way? But Temperance didn’t say that. Instead, Temperance said, ‘I’ll think on it. And… the other thing, too.’


	6. Chapter 6

Temperance didn’t like change—not when he couldn’t control it. But some change, sometimes, felt good.

_‘He’. What a relief._

There was a datapad waiting in his solitary (given not as a punishment this time, but because of what he assumed was Honesty’s patronage—he didn’t like it either), empty, beckoning to him every time he entered the room. Waiting to be filled with names.

For two weeks Temperance avoided it. He had other things to occupy his time. Like testing his new identity.

It felt good.

Like a stretch, like a rolling of shoulders after anticipating a fight that always threatened and never resolved into actual violence. Who would have thought that being called ‘brother’ would sound like freedom? Would feel like living, at last. He wasn’t happy, but he was… better.

He had only one week to provide the Council the list, however, otherwise he’d be assigned to whoever chose him.

He needed to breathe.

To go out.

Honesty’s ‘suspicions’ about his identity made an explanation for the ‘burrowed’ clothes obvious for everyone involved, to Temperance’s surprise. Nobody suspected anything but yet another instance of an acolyte trying to find themself.

 _‘Self-exploration’_ , they called it.

The binding shirt was left to him, and although everything else had been taken (he mourned the loss of the jacket the most, torn as it had been), Temperance couldn’t believe his luck. It was entirely _too_ suspicious, but he would exploit his luck as much as he could. Getting another jacket wasn’t a problem either.

Again, he sneaked out of his room at night (the datapad left accusing on his desk). He had worries about the vent shaft, but it wasn’t locked again, and Temperance made his way out. This time, he kept to the part of the slums far away from the place he had gone to the previous time. He considered going to Tierville, but it was too dangerous, he could meet any of the Technomancers going for a sudden nightly stroll or some of the workers.

He needed to think, but roaming the alleys wasn’t an option anymore, and so, listening to chatter, looking for the signs: blue lights, drunks lying on the ground, fights breaking out—he searched.

At last he came to a squat repurposed warehouse. A neon sign announced it as _Ramper_ —however, the first letter was flickering, so the poor establishment couldn’t decide between being raucous and being _electrifying_. Temperance chuckled to himself and strode to the entrance—and his way was promptly blocked. He looked up at the big fellow. Judging by the width of his shoulders, a frown, and a worn, but tidy sturdy jacket, he was the local bouncer.

‘And where do you think you’re going, boyo?’

Temperance shrugged. ‘To Ramper. Or Amper, you guys don’t seem to make up your mind.’

The bouncer’s gaze unfocused, then he looked up at the sign. ‘Oh, for fuck’s…’ He looked back at Temperance with a strange expression on his face. ‘You can’t go in anyway, smart aleck. Toddlers are not allowed.’

Temperance rolled his eyes. ‘You do realise that you are in the slums where I can easily get a nailgun and would be solicited drugs on every corner if I weren’t careful? So what if I want into your bar? Do you care?’

The bouncer stood silent, then shrugged and stepped aside. ‘All right. But if your mommy comes after you, you’re dealing with her yourself.’

 _I don’t have a mommy_ , Temperance thought and moved past the bouncer.

It was dark inside, with blue lights and, weirdly, the pyramid symbol of Aurora glowing just under the roof. It suited Temperance just fine. The many people filling the relatively small warehouse indicated that it was rather popular,.

Temperance made his way to a dark corner and perched on a crate, gaze sweeping over people gyrating to noises so loud the bass was vibrating in Temperance’s bones. On the gallery above the dance floor two people shook hands. Possibly dealing in lives or weapons or something just as illegal.

Temperance considered getting a gun—no, too risky and too pricey. Brass knuckles, however… He could fashion his own, too. Gloves with metal studs.

He looked at the entrance—and tensed: two figures were in a conversation with the bouncer. The bouncer nodded, pointed inside, Serum changed hands, and the two figures stepped into the warehouse.

Temperance cursed: the bullish faces and—and the patch on the breast A coil of razor wire. Those were the ones he had run from the first outing. Behind them loomed six other similarly built and clothes fellows. They were moving with purpose, shoving dancers and drunks out of their way none-too-gently, eyes scanning, looking for something.

Temperance drew further into the shadow.

It must have been nothing. How stupid had they had to be to look for someone who had upset them weeks ago? They must be looking for someone else.

But still, Temperance pressed his left palm to the metal sheet that comprised the wall of the warehouse, feeling for the current of the lights and sound system. The main entrance was blocked by two guys, and Temperance sat nearly opposite of them but for now was protected by the moving bodies and relative darkness of his corner. Two more were sent up to the gallery, but, winding along the walls, it put Temperance in its shadow directly under it, so unless the idiotic bastards would care to look from the stairs— they didn’t. Idiots indeed.

There must be another exit behind the bar: Temperance had seen one of the bartenders disappear and return with a crate full of bottles. Then again, it could be leading to a storage room without another exit… The bar wasn’t an option anyway: too many people jostling before it, and if Temperance took off the lights, he wouldn’t know where to move and what to expect behind the bar.

Between him and the main entrance, there were bodies—and those two guards, and he didn’t want to run again, but had little choice…

With a start, he realised his heart was hammering and his fingers were tingling with building charge—and he felt good.

He grinned to himself and looked up—and met the gaze of one of the men he had encountered tat first time. The man’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth—and Temperance sent a charge through the wall.

The sound system screeched, deafening Temperance, drowning cries of confused patrons bustling in the darkness, cries mingling with curses. Temperance was moving already, having the imprint of the exit in his mind’s eye, pressing forward, using his shorter height and small stature to find his way out. The entrance glowed with red light like hope. Temperance swayed, getting elbowed to the head by someone. He pressed a hand to his head and pressed on—and fell into the air. Dazed, blinded, he scrambled to get away—not looking, just moving. His jacket was yanked, and he let his arms flap back but didn’t stop running. The wide jacket slid off, and Temperance staggered forward when his shoulder was grabbed.

‘Where do you think you’re—’

He didn’t listen. Just turned, ducking under the grabbing hand, and rammed his full weight into the offender’s legs. The man went down with a yelp, and Temperance jumped onto him, driving a knee into his solar plexus. He didn’t think. His veins burned with energy, his lips ached in a smile, he raised a fist and punched. Punched. Punched.

He raised his fist again—and couldn’t move it. He roared, and reared up, a sizzle ringing in his ears—and stared into a familiar face, twisted and with pools of panic in the eyes. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

Temperance blinked, the wave of heat and rage lowering, and he began to be aware of his surroundings: the painful grip on his wrist, his fists cramping. The body at his feet—he glanced down but everything he could see was blood, so much of it his insides twisted. The body let out a groan and shifted, and Temperance let out a breath. Alive. Alive.

Integrity yanked him up, and Temperance pulled his hand free. It was released, and he started massaging his knuckles—wincing at the blood. He couldn’t say whether it was his or the thug’s. His knuckles hurt as though he had punched a wall.

He glanced at Integrity, and laughter bubbled up in his chest: Integrity looked for all the world like another one of those thugs: the dark jacket with a patch, his brow dirty, his fists clenched in fingerless gloves. The notches on his temples were carefully concealed, probably by makeup.

‘Integrity! You know him?’

Temperance clenched his fists again, but caught a glare from Integrity, and then the adept called over his shoulder, ‘Yeah! He’s my brother!’

A few whistles followed. ‘That explains why he fights so well!’

A groan as Temperance caught his victim being helped to sit up. ‘Shit. He’s broken Veracity’s jaw! Bring the git to the boss, we gotta recruit him!’

‘Maybe in your dreams,’ Integrity grumbled then grabbed Temperance’s arm and forced him into the alley behind the warehouse and shoved him.

Temperance stumbled, not happy about being manhandled, but kept his balance and shifted low, ready to deliver another blow. He would welcome the hot wave, the rush of a fight.

And looking at Integrity’s red face, smelling electricity, he could picture clocking him perfectly.

‘Listen, you bare-knuckled prince or whatever you think of yourself,’ Integrity hisses, ‘if you tell the mentors about any of it, I sweat I’ll turn your life into hell’.

 _How curious_ , Temperance thought distantly, _that he doesn’t threaten to tell them about_ me. He tasted metal in the air, prickling his tongue: Integrity was losing control. Because of him. And Temperance didn’t get a chance to beat the fight out of his system.

‘I’m not afraid of you,’ he said just as quietly. And he wasn’t. He wanted to smash Integrity’s nose and not stop. His whole body was vibrating with it. He smiled as sweetly as he could. ‘You called me “brother”, however. Thank you.’

Integrity shrugged with one shoulder. ‘It is true, and they don’t have to know it’s not by blood. Now, you gotta go back whatever way you got out, and forget about seeing me here.’

Temperance smiled again. ‘I didn’t see you, you didn’t see me. Got it. _Brother_.’

He walked past Integrity back to the thugs. There was a red patch on the sand, but Temperance’s moaning adversary was nowhere in sight. The thugs were watching him and so he walked to them with a small smile then picked his jacket from the hands of one of them. ‘Thank you.

Only then, shouldering the jacket on, he walked away, casually as he could. Clenching his fists tightly in his pockets until they started cramping again, trying not to break into a run—or break someone’s nose again. His left fist was throbbing with pain.

He roamed the streets for some time, coming down from the high of the fight. His body was aching all over, but in a good way. Did it feel like this when adepts trained together? The opportunity to let go.

As he roamed aimlessly, his thoughts turned and formed and crystallised into a decision, and Temperance at last set for the Source, made the way through the vent system, then ventured to his cell and flopped onto the bed, starting at the ceiling. Another night cycle of ventilating began with a hiss.

Temperance couldn’t sleep. He was energised. He has up, shrugged off the jacket and not without some hesitation, pulled off the binding shirt. It dampened his mood somewhat, but it couldn’t be worn for too long, he didn’t need problems with breathing. He waited for the morning bell, got up, dressed again, and then made his way to the wing where mentors with trines lives, and just rounding the corner, he ran into Honesty.

‘Temperance? Up so early?’ She smiled, and he nodded.

‘I had to see you, mentor. Do you have a moment?’

‘Of course. Let us go to my quarters.’

He was suddenly hesitant, but followed her anyway. He’d never been inside a trine quarters before, though he’d ventured into their wing. The door Honestly opened to him led to what he’d call a living room, with four doors set in the walls, probably leading to the bedrooms and maybe a closet. It was rather empty, a settle and a low table in the middle, with an armchair opposite of the settle. A stack of books on one end of the settle, with a rather beaten mole toy sitting atop it. A holoframe on the wall opposite of the front door. That was all.

‘You know that you shouldn’t tell me about your choices for a trine, don’t you?’ Honesty said when they settled, the mentor in the armchair, Temperance on the edge of the settle, as far from the toy as possible.

‘That’s not why I’m here. I’m here about the other thing.’ He couldn’t bring himself to say it.

He didn’t need to. ‘About the implant?’

He nodded. It wouldn’t be a debt to the Source, it wouldn’t. It was something he needed to function. They wouldn’t deny it to him any more than they would deny him sustenance.

Honestly smiled and nodded. ‘I shall schedule your medical appointment right away. It is a quick procedure, nothing to worry about. Shall we give you the connectors, too?’

To be marked as a Technomancer forever… But he was marked already by the simply fact of his existence. Having a better control of the flow would be beneficial, however. ‘Yes. Thank you.’


	7. Chapter 7

Temperance tapped the stylus on the datapad, then reached to rub his right arm. The implant was nearly invisible by now, and Temperance could only feel it if he pressed on the spot—a slight hard bump on his forearm. The connectors he didn’t feel at all. Bless the Colonists for their advanced tech that the Technomancers were able to preserve and use.

Every stop at the showers now ended with Temperance glued to the mirror. Every morning he tested his voice. The change wouldn’t be rapid, of course, but he was excited to see it happen.

There was the issue of the list deadline. There were two names on his list so far, names of mentors he didn’t care about and who didn’t care about him but they didn’t have trines yet. He didn’t much know which ones of the adepts didn’t have trines yet. Temperance shuddered. What if Integrity ended up with him? Maybe they would allow him to be without a trine, too? Well, if he did end up with Integrity in the same trine, at least there would be a mentor. Idly, he wrote ‘Integrity’ in his list, then scratched it off, shaking his head. The fucker wouldn’t destroy his life. Temperance had a way of destroying _his_. Beating him on the training grounds would be good, but talking about his involvement with a gang would be nice, too.

Temperance sent the list to the Council and put the datapad away. He found himself unable to sleep much this last week, worrying about implants rejection, Integrity making his move after all. He hoped the Council wouldn’t mind getting his list in such a time, he hoped.

Did the gang even know that Integrity was a Technomancer? It seemed unlikely, although the knowledge could give them an advantage over others, as much in combat as psychological. A mystic warrior among their ranks. But it could ruin Integrity just as certainly…

A pounding on his door woke Temperance, and he rolled off his cot with a curse, disoriented. He grabbed his jacket and pulled it on as the pounding continued. He couldn’t tell the time. Had he slept through the morning bell?

He opened the door. Blinked at Honesty. She was dressed in the formal longcoat, though with no wires circling her head. Behind her hovered her two adepts.

Temperance pulled the jacket tighter around his throat. ‘Mentor?’

‘Temperance. We shall proceed to the Council Chamber.’

Temperance swallowed. ‘Now?’ He felt dishevelled. He needed a wash.

Had Integrity told them everything?

‘Now, Temperance, if you please.’

‘One moment?’

‘Of course.’

He closed the door, dressed properly, raked this fingers through his short hair. He couldn’t be more ready, so he stepped out. To face whatever was to come.

The mentor took point, and her pupils flanked Temperance. He felt like under a convict convoy, which made him twitchy, wishing he were back on the streets. Punching bastards who thought him an easy target. The skin on his knuckles was still split.

He looked up and caught the eye of Ferocity. He winked and smiled. Temperance felt blood rushing to his cheeks and looked down.

It wasn’t a long walk, and they met nobody else on their way: it was still early. At least they arrived to a rather plain door that slid aside to admit them.

He had never been in the Council Chamber. He expected something like the Temple: high, dark ceiling, beams and arches somewhere up, windows arranged in such a way that light fell through them in a triangle—a representation of the Aurora symbol. Echoes dancing around; a big cup, blown elegantly from fine glass, on the raised dais. Temperance always felt out of place there, restless, wanted to scale the walls and get on the beams. Change perspective from the one that was forced upon him. Even when it was a place of celebration.

The Council Chamber wasn’t big. It didn’t even deserve the grand name of a ‘chamber’. It was small, not enough to admit the full three trines of the Council. It was… homey, with an oblong table in the middle and mismatched chairs around it. The room was made even smaller by the bookshelves. Bound books, heavy, light, bound in paper and carton and leather, not a trace of dust or sand on them. The floor wasn’t cold metal or grilled, it was something hard but warm, yellow-brown, with an uneven pattern… Temperance realised with a start that it was wood.

He nearly tripped over his feet when he was called. ‘Temperance!’

He shook himself, looked up and put his hands behind his back. ‘Councillor Familiarity.’

The Councillor was a stout man, completely grey, one of the eldest in the Source, probably the eldest. It was easier to speak to one person than to many, and since Familiarity was the one who called Temperance by his name, it was to him that Temperance decided to talk. He glanced about and noticed a grinning Integrity. What was he doing there? Had he joined a trine?

Didn’t matter.

Temperance turned to Familiarity. ‘Yes, Councillor?’

‘We are here to announce that you have been accepted as an adept. The formal ceremony is tonight—if you wish for it.’

He swallowed. ‘Are there any other adepts admitted?’

‘Not at this time.’

‘Then I don’t wish for a formal ceremony.’ He expected an objection, but the Councillor simply nodded. Fewer problems. Temperance didn’t want to look like a fool in front of the whole Source.

‘I’ve been accepted into a trine, then?’

‘Yes, albeit into an incomplete one.’

Temperance clasped his hands together behind his back. One-on-one training? The thought was terrifying. Outwardly, he forced out a smile. ‘It is just as well, and I am honoured. And whose trine it is?’

Integrity stepped forward, the grin on his face showing teeth. ‘Mine.’


	8. Chapter 8

Temperance hugged his knees to his chest. He couldn’t bring himself to start packing his things—not that he had that many. He was to move in with his mentor, as it always happened, as it was expected.

His mentor.

Integrity.

How _did_ it happen?

He had demanded to see the file, and refused to do anything until they showed it to him—and here it was, three names instead of two, and Temperance’s signature.

He had been sure he had scratched Integrity’s name out from the list before sending it… hadn’t he? He wasn’t sure anymore. Was using Technomancy without supervision affecting his brain? He had read something about it, couldn’t remember the details…

Integrity. The Council had to be stupid or blind to agree to it, lists or not. But the problem was that Temperance didn’t know anymore. Integrity hadn’t given him over to his gang friends even though he could have. And he called Temperance ‘brother’.

It felt like the most important thing.

Also, Integrity had threatened him, but Temperance had replied with a veiled threat of his own, and Temperance remembered the pain of a dislocated shoulder. If Integrity made funny moves, Temperance wouldn’t hesitate before punching him, and since mentors were supposed to train their mentees in combat, he had every opportunity to do so.

Temperance sighed. No reason to prolong the inevitable.

He grabbed his stuff without bothering to pack it neatly, and went to the mentor wing, looking for the right door. Upon finding it, he slid it open. Behind was what he’d already seen: a living area, the same settle and armchair, a holo showing mountains in the blue sunset. Sans the books and the mole. He chose the bedroom at random. It didn’t differ much from his solitary, which suited him just fine. He dropped his things onto the cot, then picked his newly issued longcoat, mole leather supple under his fingers, the tails wonderfully blue. He put it on the rack, then, with some hesitation, went out to the living room.

Another thing that awaited him was the haircut. It was a simple practical matter and, of course, it was another thing that made the Technomancers stand out visibly. Traditionally, if an adept was chosen into a trine right away, their mentor was to cut their hair. Temperance wasn’t thrilled by the prospect, but he sat down in the armchair when Integrity brought the trimmer. To Temperance, it looked like a torture instrument. He resolved to stare right in front of himself.

Integrity stood impossibly close. The trimmer buzzed up, and Temperance tried not to flinch. It was too intimate, the trimmer pressing on his skull, too close for his liking. He kept still, even though he had to press his palms flat to his thighs.

Then Integrity started working on the sides of his head and put a hand on Temperance’s shoulder, squeezing it. It was a slow, deliberate squeeze, not merely a matter of supporting himself. Fingers curled on Temperance’s shoulder, covered only by a shirt, one by one, like jellyfish stingers.

Temperance’s palms tightened into fists and he managed through gritted teeth, ‘Stop it.’

‘Stop what?’

Temperance twisted, hand shooting up, grabbing Integrity’s face. Integrity didn’t drop the trimmer, but his eyes widened and at least he let go of Temperance’s shoulder. Temperance dug his fingers into Integrity’s cheeks and pulled him close. ‘If you ever touch me like this again, I will drain electricity from the neurons in your head and you will end up brain-dead, I swear to the Shadow.’

Integrity’s eyes were glistening and his voice came muffled from under Temperance’s palm. ‘You can’t do that!’

‘Shall we try?’

Integrity pulled back, and Temperance let go of his face with a little shove. The mentor turned the trimmer off, looking at Temperance with raised eyebrows. ‘Didn’t expect this from you, princeling,’ he said in a normal voice with a hint of his usual mockery.

Temperance turned his back to him. ‘Thought we should establish some things right,’ he said just as casually. ‘Finish the haircut, we’ve got shit to do.’

‘”Shit”. You can take a brat from the streets, but you can’t take the streets from the brat.’


	9. Chapter 9

It was terrible. Studying alone with Integrity, Temperance was braced for a jab or a scalding comment or for an unwelcome touch all the time, and missed most of what Integrity was telling him. He couldn’t relax in his room either even though it was possible to lock it. He could taste Integrity’s presence everywhere.

He needed to breathe.

And he still had one thing to sort out.

Integrity was absent for the evening—went after his gang or to harass someone else, Temperance cared not. He was betting on the former.

It was easier to get out, since nobody was patrolling the mentor wing, so Temperance didn’t have to conceal his signature when he prowled the corridors. He changed into more appropriate clothes and left the Source the usual way.

He didn’t hesitate, taking the familiar route to _Ramper/Amper_. Perhaps he was taking this stroll for nothing and there would be a different bouncer. Then he’d have just taken a stroll to clear his head. And if he had to meet Integrity, well, now they had a secret they shared and Integrity couldn’t risk exposing them.

It suited Temperance just fine, for now.

He was in the luck: the Frowny Face was guarding the entrance to the club again. Temperance strode right to him, keeping his hands in his pockets and his charge in check. The bouncer didn’t notice him right away, then noticed, blinked, as though without recognition. ‘The bare-knuckled royalty? You look… different.’

Temperance grinned. ‘Do I?’ It seemed his grin and relaxed posture didn’t put the bouncer at ease: he reached for the baton on his belt. Temperance was pointedly not looking at it. ‘Oh, you know, we had a heart-to-heart with Integrity, brother to brother. A little scuffle brings people closer.’

‘Does it?’ The bouncer gave Temperance a once-over.

Temperance sweetened his grin, made a step closer to the bouncer—who, unbelievably, made a step back. Temperance’s grin widened, and he advanced, steering the bigger man until he had him in the side alley. The bouncer glanced quick over Temperance’s shoulder, and Temperance used this to step even further, nearly pressing himself to the bouncer’s chest. The man was a head and shoulders taller than Temperance.

‘I believe we have an unfinished business,’ Temperance purred, keeping his voice low, his gaze on the bouncer’s face. ‘What’s your name?’

That face blanched, and that was nearly enough of a satisfaction to Temperance—but only nearly.

‘Now listen—

‘What. Is. Your. Name?’

The bouncer blinked. He had very sparse eyelashes. ‘Frugality, but I don’t see how—’

‘Frugality. Good. Now you listen to me.’ Temperance dropped the smile and lowered his voice even more, ‘You sold me out back then. I don’t care how much they offered you— _shut up!_ —I don’t care that you do it with all the guests of the bar, but you. Will. Never. Sell. Me. Out!’

Temperance knew how it looked like from the outside: a scrawny boy threatening a huge man towering over him. He made sure to not let the bouncer realise that.

‘You are fucking crazy, you little sh—’

‘Careful,’ he said with a smile, his voice nearly a whisper. ‘I don’t need Integrity’s help with this. With _you_.’ His fingers were prickling, his head pounding, and his vision was sharp, electric currents caressing his skin.

He didn’t _read_ terror in the bouncer’s eyes—he could feel it, a taste on his mouth like dry sand, a change in the man’s electric output.

‘All right, all right, I get it, fucking get off of me!’ The bouncer pressed himself firmly to the wall.

Temperance realised his fingers were twitching, curling like claws, and he closed them into fists instead and put into his pockets. ‘You get it,’ he said. ‘I’m glad we’ve come to an understanding. See you around, friend.’

He stalked away even though his body was twitching for a fight. To spend this energy, he walked the alleys without a clear destination in mind, veering further and further away from the bustle of the busier streets, contemplated going into the Underworks…

‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’

Being stalked by the members of the Razors was becoming his new habit, it seemed.

He glanced about. He had walked into a small bowl with walls of rock surrounding it. Two ways out: one he had left behind, leading into a more populated area, and another over a short ridge that he’d need some time to scale. He ought to pay more attention to his surroundings instead of the currents and stars.

Everything was so sharp, so crispy-clear he’d probably need a strong drink to return to normal levels of awareness.

Without even looking over his shoulders, he could tell there were a dozen of them, all itching for a fight… No, one cautious. That one was a threat. Various weaponry: coshes, knuckles, their signature ridiculous whips— oh, three nailguns. In the cramped space of the bowl, they would be unwise to use them, unless they were very good at using them. Studded boots—unwise, too, he could use that. Bind them with arcs in a tangle of power and incinerate them all at once…

He never wanted to return to normal levels of awareness.

‘Integrity won’t like you touching his brother!’ he said without turning, rolling his shoulders.

A drawl in reply, ‘We can deal with Integrity, don’t you worry!’

Well, he had tried.

He dashed to the ledge.

Curses flew after him, and his sharp awareness allowed him to duck away from nails that followed. Boots pounded after him just as he reached the ledge: he was most exposed there. He run up the wall, trampled on the urge to laugh.

Maybe he _was_ crazy.

‘Not so fast, royalty!’

He grabbed the edge of the ledge—and pain flared in his shoulder. He hit his chin on the edge and his mouth filled with blood from bitten tongue. He was yanked back, pain blazing again, and tumbled down on the ground, and more sharp points of pain dug into his shoulder, making him cry out. He tried to scramble to his feet, but his only focus was that pain, pulsing through him, clawing at him. He managed to twist to look at his shoulder.

It was a torn mess.

The razor whip had torn through the jacket. Blood was seeping into Temperance’s shirt, sticky and thick. Blood on his chest and back, blood in his mouth.

Blood in his vision.

They were closing in on him, voices a distant rumble, pain like needles in his shoulder, shivers running through his body. He bared his teeth, crouching, and reached with his left hand to his right shoulder, closed his fingers over the tail of the whip, slowly, the nail-like wire digging into his palm, cold and sharp.

He closed his eyes and let go.

The charge turned the metal taste in his mouth unbearable, so thick it obscured everything else, and it was not enough, a bottomless well he was drawing the charge from, more, more, _more_ , pulling the charge from nearby objects, the air itself.

Sizzling, crackling, clapping, and he howled and couldn’t hear his voice, and the storm was his voice.


	10. Chapter 10

He couldn’t get the damn reek out of his nose.

Temperance had thrown up three times on his way to the vents, staggering, foul, his shirt crusty with blood, his jacket torn. He couldn’t look around because he was afraid someone might follow him to the _sizzled, crispy, shrivelled corpses with weapons melted glistening glass—_

No. No, it wasn’t how it went.

It was just bodies. No glass, no shrieks of pain—it was just his damn imagination, they had died quickly of stroke and their lungs stopping their work, no no no…

He tasted ash and bile. His lips were _flesh wielded shut—_

No.

He lowered himself to the floor of the shaft and curled up on his side in the sand blown into the vent, chafing against his skin. His stomach ached and roiled, but he didn’t have anything to heave out anymore. He was hungry, thirsty, dirty with sand and sweat and blood, and he was reeking of—

_You are a murderer._

Being a soldier—no, a warrior, for Aurora, for virtues—it was expected from him. A war with Abundance could break out any day, and more importantly, he had to protect knowledge, the Colonist knowledge, the Earth knowledge.

It was expected that he might need to kill in order to serve his duty.

There was nothing of duty in that murder.

A muscle started twitching somewhere under his shoulder blade, and he rolled onto his back but it didn’t stop.

_They were planning to beat you, possibly kill you._

_Yes, and I electrocuted them._

He had wanted them to burn. The raw power coursing through him had been… intoxicating. He had forgotten about himself, about everything. He had been free, united with the world around him. His very _self_ dissolved into that complete unity.

His left hand, slashed on the razor wire, was throbbing like mad, and dimly he mused on the word ‘infection’. He clutched it to his chest with his other hand.

They would come after him.

He opened his eyes wide even though there was nothing to see in the darkness of the tunnel and it didn’t matter whether he had his eyes open or not.

They would come after him.

Didn’t matter whether any of his victims survived. Didn’t matter that there had been no witnesses if nobody survived. Any engineer, any doctor would recognise electric burns, and on such a scale it would be no question at all of who had done it. And since the perpetrator would not be present, obviously it had not been a case of a kid with Technomantic powers overloading.

The gang would come to the Source. The people would come and demand answers.

He thought of Honesty.

He thought about acolytes, all those kids who hadn’t even started their Technomantic training.

_‘Royalty.’_

They would protect him as they always did with their own, even though he wasn’t theirs to protect. There were simply too few of Technomancers even in Aurora for the Source to allow prosecution.

He couldn’t bring down this on them, he couldn’t.

Temperance got up to his feet, gritting his teeth against pain. It had to be still too early, he could get his things and run.


	11. Chapter 11

He headed to the showers, first. Tearing the jacket off took him a lot of time: his left hand was nearly useless, but his right arm, his right shoulder was a mutilated mess. He had to tear the shirt, too, take off the binding shirt as well. He couldn’t get any more sick than he had been. There was a smear on his cheekbone and across his lips. He wasn’t a pretty sight in the mirror.

Temperance wet a towel with trembling hands, but pain, pain was good. Pain sharpened his mind, reminded him of his decision. His skin was crawling, but it didn’t matter.

He scrubbed the grime off as best he could, not allowing himself to wince or to hiss or to grit his teeth.

Gripping the whip had been bloody stupid.

Not watching his surroundings for a tail had been bloody stupid.

Murdering people had been bloody stupid.

He was lucky the digging bits hadn’t torn into an artery or a vein. Or perhaps, he was unlucky.

Temperance dropped the towel into a waste bin, then tore the shirt into bandages and wrapped his hand as he could. His shoulder had stopped bleeding already.

Any non-mutant would have died, probably, but he was a mutant. A monster. Even such an injury would heal fast enough if he would be careful.

He considered going for his bedroom, getting his gloves— No. No, he wouldn’t. He would never wear them again, and if ever a need arises to use his Technomancy, it should be desperate enough for him to risk a burn. No more. He needed his coat, however. If anything, he would be able to sell it. There would always be pawn-brokers who wouldn’t look twice at a Technomantic longcoat. He’d have to go back to his room and somehow dodge Integrity. 

He picked his sorry jacket and left.

The trin wing was silent. Temperance kept quiet. Integrity’s door was locked when he reached their quarters.

Temperance took his coat from the rack. He hadn’t had an occasion to wear it yet except for the one time when it had been tailored for him during fitting. He bundled it carefully, then left with it on quiet feet, making steady way to the vent that had been his way to freedom. His head was throbbing, his tongue thick in his mouth.

He was so tired.

‘So this is how you sneak out, you little shit.’

Temperance turned around slowly.

Integrity was clothed fully, though without the greatcoat, wires glimmering in his head. His chest was heaving as though he had run, but maybe it was due to anger. It was prickling in the air.

He was gripping his staff.

They were supposed to train in the morning, then, Integrity probably having booked the training grounds all to themselves. To hurl insults to Temperance without anyone else overhearing it.

‘Out in the night, that’s fair. But not in the day! Where the fuck are you going?’

The hairs on Temperance’s stood up. He measured his voice with care, not letting any emotion seep into it. ‘Out.’

‘We’ve training to do! The Council will be bringing an inspec—’ He clamped his mouth shut, splotches of colour rising to his cheeks.

Ah.

‘Don’t stop me. I’m going out.’ He didn’t move. He had only the bundle of his coat, but he was closer to the vent than to Integrity, and Integrity wouldn’t dare to send charge into the vent in case it turned sideways.

Temperance would need time to squeeze between the blades, however.

‘You are not going anywhere, you fuck.’

‘You won’t stop me.’

He watched Integrity’s feet. And then they moved, he was on the move, too, dashing to the vent. Heard a click of the staff extending, reached for the opening, so close, so close…

He cried out and stumbled when pain rushed through him, his momentum propelling him forward until he fell, gasping, onto the floor, his face only miraculously not smashed, cushioned by the bundle of the coat.

A memory of another such intance played in his mind. A heavy boot on his back.

Temperance gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, building his own charge, no matter the burns.

He would make Integrity pay for all those humiliating moments.

He rolled onto his back—and his charge cracked around him when the tip of the staff pierced into his shoulder, driving the current through him.

It was pain like no other, searing his thoughts, his very being, the air in his lungs boiling. His left shoulder numbed and his nostrils were hit with the reek of cooking flesh.

He couldn’t let it end like this.

He couldn’t.

Through the pain, he reached out blindly to the source of his agony, curling his fingers over it. Welcoming the current, dragging it in, until his cells were ready to burst—and let it burst.

The relief was instant, and he arched, gasping, his vision slowly turning to normal from the blinding whiteness.

His fingers were clamped around Integrity’s staff, the tip lodged a few centimeters in his chest. His heart was racing like mad, skin tingling, body trying to cope with the massive charge. With a grunt, Temperance took the staff out and it clanged on the floor.

The floor.

Trembling, he sat up, then moved onto his knees, closed his eyes—the room spinning—and let the charge flow into the floor. It felt like relief.

The next thing he remembered was groans of pain, his own and Integrity’s. He looked with bleary eyes to his mentor—his already former mentor: Integrity was breathing, a lump on the floor, sparks running over his Technomantic gear. Distantly, Temperance was glad the charge didn’t kill him.

He didn’t want another life on his hands.

Integrity would say that he attacked his mentor and turned rogue, and when inquirers would come to the Council about the incident with the gang, they would be able to point out to Temperance. 

No… Not ‘Temperance’. He would have to choose a new name, he would have to hide.

He would survive.

Temperance picked the coat, movements stiff from dimming pain. Considered taking the staff, but he could make his own later. He’d have to lie low for a while, licking his wounds. Without both arms working properly, he was useless. Temperance hobbled to the vent shaft, squeezed past the blades, threw the last look at the light, and turned his back to it. Venturing into darkness.

Sand rustled under his boots.

  


**Author's Note:**

> Roy's injuries were inspired by concept art of him, check it out [here.](https://cambrush.blogspot.ru/2013/09/mars-war-logs-concept-art-stuff.html)  
> Thanks for reading!


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